


lesser phobia

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emetophobia, M/M, Needles, Sickfic, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: theres existential dreadand then there's thin threadsof a situational dread~oneshots where i project my phobias onto jon sims.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95
Collections: anonymous





	1. emetophobia

**Author's Note:**

> anon work because like fuck am i going to have anything relating to vomit on my page, even if i wrote it.
> 
> also i'm american, so i'm sure the amount of mistakes are innumerable and embarrassing to read anyway. heads up on that.
> 
> ch 2 is also not related whatsoever, except in that in it I have also projected a phobia onto jon so there's that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something that Jon doesn't find absolutely dreadful and existentially horrifying about his transformation is the disappearance of a few key body functions through ordinary means.
> 
> He is trying to pace himself.
> 
> But he feels awful.
> 
> ~
> 
> ...TL;DR i write gay sickfics rife with projection and incoherent wording to cope with my crippling emetophobia.
> 
> anyway this is entirely stupid, makes no sense canonically, but however, is somewhat nice and very cathartic and i praise myself on that point at the very least.
> 
> is there any reason whatsoever for me to believe that jon is emetophobic? no. is there also plenty of reasons in canon to believe that jon is explicitly not emetophobic? probably! this is purely for me.
> 
> ....i say as i post it on the internet. oh well, i've put out weirder shit, i think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no graphic descriptions of vomit because not even i can handle writing that, but definitely a lot of confusing language in which jon tries his best to refer to the act of vomiting without saying any words that are traditionally used with it. if you're confused about what the FUCK jon is on about at any point, he's probably talking about puke and avoiding that word. fingerguns
> 
> projection
> 
> ch 2 later its in the works and will be shorter for sure. although this one was also meant to be short. hm
> 
> ALSO ALSO I LEARNED ALL OF MY BRITISH SLANG FROM GAVIN FROM ACHIEVEMENT HUNTER DON't hurt me (yup my american self looked at this boy from oxfordshire and went 'everything he says is definitely applicable to london folks, right? right. for sure.')

There are a wide variety of reasons why Jon would suddenly be uncomfortable and settle on the solution of opening up his eyes and groaning at the sunl-

It is not sunlit out.

He can see, of course he can, but there's an odd tint to the room when he peels his lids apart. Martin's chest is under his cheek, his skin is somewhat cold - he runs a bit chilly nowadays, it's not particularly worrying until he turns into an ice cube and loses the very coveted ability to produce different pitches and emotive sounds from his throat - but he's there. Jon feels out where his hands are by curling his fingers. One hand gets sheets, stuffed between his side and Martin's, and the other traces over Martin's belly with a sharp twitch. Right, okay.

He tries to scan through that variety of reasons. He moves one leg slightly, and then the other, and finds that both must be receiving what they each deem an appropriate amount of blood because they are not punishing him at the moment. He takes a deep breath in and feels his lungs expand easily - his throat clear and without any soreness (unlike _Martin_ , probably, he bitterly notes for a moment, hearing the soft snore as his head and neck are elevated when Martin breathes in below him).

It is when he sighs out that he feels it.

There's a dreadful cold that follows, and a short moment of panic settles into his chest and makes his heart stop and then thump, and thump. He sits up immediately, all sense to leave Martin alone thrown out, and feels sweat on the back of his neck. His head swims with the movement. There's a sick, swelling, thick feeling from his throat.

He hasn't eaten anything in a long while. Doesn't feel a desire to. He should have seen a progression of symptoms on the horizon, but wishful thinking had him pressing that possibility out of his mind. He feels his shoulders hunch and no, we are not doing this.

Jon Sims has, on a few occasions, had a creeping slick sensation of the desecrated excuse of a body he harbours taking a back seat to the unblinking eye settled in his chest where his soul should be - and until now, he didn't know that calling upon it the way he was to call upon simply staying alive, compelling an action, or recalling information would have the same ease. Just an on or off switch.

It makes his eyes burn, but the nausea that had settled just under his tongue is gone. He checks again in the dark where his hands are.

Time was apparently no object while dreading the logical conclusion to his sick feeling because when he twitches his fingers this time, they're cold and numb from hyperventilation he hadn't realized he was carrying out. They're filling in again now, as he moves them. He looks over at Martin, who is still asleep but has an arm now pulled firmly around Jon's waist and his cheek against his hipbone.

"Sorry," Jon mutters, unapologetic, to an unhearing and unconscious obstacle as he works to unravel Martin's arms from him. Martin stirs and lets him go with a grumble.

"Where are you going?"

"Piss."

Martin hums and sets his head back down against the pillow, but as Jon slides from under the comforter, he can feel Martin's eyes on him. He Knows he's watching, watching to keep him true to his word, but there's no reason to be any more facetious than he has been. Jon goes rifling through the pockets of his trousers folded neatly beside the bed and traverses the dark room with extreme ease as he runs his thumb over the embossed design on his lighter.

It's cool outside, and he'd like to make the assumption that it rained, but really, it's impossible to wonder on the topic. There's a bit of humidity and a slight wet breeze that makes it hard to click the lighter on as he stands, in nought but his pants, on the side stoop of the cabin.

The cold has always helped him feel better when nausea rolls over him. A smoke doesn't often hurt, either. The long inhales give his body a moment to compromise - 'no, not yet, vomiting while breathing in is probably not a great idea'. Besides, having his heart rate at anything other than terminal velocity is probably a good thing. Get some blood flowing, too. Cool down his sweating, shaking frame.

The moment he releases his focus, it's going to happen, he's definitely going to vomit. He may just have to live like this forever now. Or, forever enough until he starves himself to death, of course.

His fingers shake when he pulls the cigarette from his lips, holding as long as he can. He's breathing out into the cold air and feeling his chest tighten up when the screen door has a soft tap against it.

"Jon?"

Jon turns. Martin probably can't see as well, but he's certain to see the glowing ash. Jon flicks it off and hopes it's less noticeable. Martin doesn't seem to pay it much mind.

"You alright?"

Jon is silent still. Opening his mouth to speak is almost as difficult as keeping his knees from collapsing out from underneath him, but like standing, he's capable, if not entirely willing.

"Fine."

Martin stays silent for a while, staring with an indifferent expression, before the light comes back to his eyes and his brows furrow at their normal meeting place in the middle of his forehead, "Are you sure? It's two in the morning."

"Feeling ill."

Martin's lips purse and then he frowns.

"What sort of ill? Could get you an ibuprofen and a tea if you'd like me to."

"I'm alright, I'd rather not talk about it."

Martin continues to look at him with his almost-sad owlish eyes. "Is it -- should I get you something to read before bed?"

"No, Martin, I feel fine in that regard, I just --." His fingers begin to shake. "Feel like I'm about to vomit."

"R-Right now? Ah! In the grass, please!?"

Jon gives him a stern look that may have contained a sneer of a laugh were he not currently trying not to cry. "I have it under control."

He sets his cigarette against his lips. Martin opens the door and stands on the stoop beside him, arms curled around himself. It is a little cold, sure, but he doesn't need to be such a child about it.

"What do you mean, under control?"

"I mean that I won't do it, grass or otherwise, so you don't need to worry."

Martin unwraps an arm from around his chest and opens it for Jon. Jon, hesitantly, takes the contact. 

"That's not healthy."

"Neither is-- you know."

"Well! I've read on the internet plenty of times about people choking and all of that nonsense trying not to, and I don't want to test how long you can go without air nowadays. Forgive me."

Jon's breath catches and he closes his eyes, trying to bite back burning tears. Martin rubs a hand up and down his upper arm, trying to warm him, despite the fact Jon would much rather be freezing cold at the moment.

"Just let me do this. There are - things, I can do, that I would rather I not have access to. This is one of the few things that are helpful about my condition. Let it be."

"You're - using your Archivist gunk to keep from throwing up?"

"It's _important_."

"I can walk you to the toilet, Jon!"

"It's not that!" His exasperation is starting to overtake his fear, but he can still feel his head filling with icy dread whenever he keeps off of the filter of his cigarette for too long. He's down at the end of his first one and tosses it onto the wet concrete and fishes for another.

"Well, what is it, then?"

Jon hesitates. What is it?

"It's all of it. It's - uncomfortable. It's disgusting and dirty. It feels awful and sounds awful and I can't breathe and I have no control and it hurts and it's embarrassing, leant over a toilet."

Martin thinks he does a good job of holding back a chuckle, but he doesn't, and Jon elbows him. He's plenty of padding to keep it from hitting anything vital, but he grunts all the same and starts to make to bump him back, but stops short and frowns again in the dark, thinking better of giving Jon too hard of a jostle with his current simmering panic. Jon is just about to light his second cigarette when Martin pipes up.

"Can I help?"

"Help with what? No, Martin."

"Well, if it hurts, maybe we can - sit you down, and you can keep it down with your spooky such-and-such until we get enough water in you for it to not hurt or taste as bad."

Jon stays silent, and Martin continues.

"And I could put down a few towels on the tile so your bad leg doesn't get too hurt kneeling down like that. I'll tie your hair up and take your glasses and make sure you've got a washcloth and mouthwash and your toothbrush and more water. And I can leave, if you want me to, so nobody has to see it."

Jon twirls the cigarette between his fingers with practised expertise.

"I --..."

"Or I can stay."

"You've started crying because a woman on the radio sounded like she might be tearing up. If you're an empathetic vom, Martin, I can't-"

"I'm not! I swear I'm not. I, ah, have some experience being around people who, you know, erm... Well, anyway, you'll feel better after you do, you know."

"Briefly."

"Maybe it's a one-time thing."

"Or maybe I'm ill."

"If you are, then we can keep the set-up until you aren't. I wouldn't mind sitting down on the toilet and not having my feet freeze on the tile, if I'm honest. Maybe we should keep a towel there all the time."

"Wear your damn socks."

"I don't like them!"

Jon does manage a huff of laughter this time, despite the miserable feeling rumbling in his stomach just under the thin barrier of being detached entirely from his auto-piloting body. Existentially, it should make him feel worse, having something so relatively small and insignificant chase him right into making the decision to stay as far from his own humanity as possible, but as it happens now, he can't imagine going back until he's sure that it's _not_ going to happen.

...But Martin makes a very compelling case. He flicks his lighter and sets alight the second cigarette. Martin pulls an arm around his middle and for a moment it's nice until his fingers brush his stomach and that awful feeling boils and -- he elbows Martin again and takes another step down off of the porch into the night with a strangled sound.

"Jon..."

"Don't - I can't, Martin. I really can't do it."

"So you're just going to... keep doing... that?"

"What else can I do? What else?"

Martin's face is worried as he averts his eyes from Jon's piercing gaze, reflective like a cornered animal in the midnight dim. He frowns. Jon can see every line and muscle drawn as he does, and it makes him more sick. He draws off of his cigarette.

"Can we just go inside?"

"I'm - it's too warm."

"I'll open up the windows, and we can leave the back door open."

"Please don't make me do this."

"I won't!" Martin looks hurt at the accusation and bites his bottom lip, opening the screen door and offering Jon a way back inside. "I just want you inside, okay? First step."

Jon knows what he's trying to pull, but Martin is convincing.

"...Okay. Finish up here, then come inside?"

Jon's brows pinch. It'd felt less embarrassing when Martin hadn't mentioned it, but now that it's been spoken about, the cigarette has lost most of its comforting presence. Jon makes his way back to the cabin, crushing it out on the frame on his way inside.

Martin places a hand on the small of his back and guides him to the sitting room, has him sit on the sofa. True to his word, he opens up the windows, and lets in the cold even though he seems like he's struggling with the temperature. Jon's frozen to his bones, but it's still not enough to freeze his insides stationary apparently, because under his mechanical breath and beat of his dreadful fake heart, his stomach still hurts and twists and threatens him.

"Could I get you some water?"

This is the second step. Jon grits his teeth as a wave of nausea breaks. Martin has got to quit getting him emotional, this is not how he wants any of this to happen.

"Martin."

Martin shivers, just the slightest movement, and stares at him from across the sofa.

Jon gives in.

"...Sure. Okay. Water is fine."

"I'm going to get my shirt, too, okay? I'll be back soon."

"I'm not a child."

"I know."

Jon hunches over, pulling his chest down to his knees, focusing on the gnawing desire for more that cuts through the rest of his nerve endings. Nothing but hunger. Funny, how so often it was attempted to fix him, to pull him into this space of giving himself so freely, but a _stomach bug_ is what it takes in the end --

"Here."

There's a clink as Martin sets down a glass on the table. Jon looks up. Well, it's certainly there, but drinking it is out of the question, isn't it? Martin stands there, towering over him, with his sweater pulled over himself again and pair of pyjama trousers instead of walking around like a madman in his skivvies (like Jon is, at the moment).

"It can't hurt," Martin says, quietly.

Like Hell it can't. Jon takes the water in one hand anyway, then both, feeling the chill of it through the glass on his palms, and then on his lips, and on his throat. Okay. Maybe it won't hurt. Martin sits beside him, a little closer than before. Jon makes it clear he doesn't want to be touched, flinching back a little, and sending him a glare full of malice through the dim light being cast from the bulb in the kitchen. Martin reroutes the hand that was going for Jon's middle to his knee and settles there.

"Is your leg bothering you?"

Jon does a scan from his throne above human functions and finds that, among other things, yes. Underneath his unfeeling Archivist skin, his thigh aches.

"Plenty."

"So if we were to do this, you'd want something on the floor so you didn't have to kneel down on the tile."

"Preferably." Jon sticks to one-word answers. It's not worth bickering over at the moment. Besides, any more, and the speech that comes out of his throat may not be the only thing. Anxiety twists in him. Pokes its disgusting needle-sized holes all through his protective coat of Watching. He tries not to wrench it too hard, not to tear the whole thing to pieces. Sets the glass against his lips again and closes his eyes - still able to feel the room around him. There is not much different from Knowing exactly how everything around him looks at any given moment and being able to see it physically, he's found - the two are essentially the same area of the brain. Knowing that Martin is staring down at his hand while he rubs circles in Jon's knee is the same as seeing it. Knowing that his left eyebrow is mussed and sticking up in odd directions is the same as seeing it. Knowing that a bubble is curling through the water, dodging chunks of ice on its way to the surface...

Jon shivers, finally. The world is too cold and too clear and his head hurts just as much as his stomach. He raises his head from between his knees and uses one long, chilled finger to press Martin's brow down into place.

"Can't believe that the first time in my life I have the opportunity right in front of my face to look at going completely and full boke and say 'no, I'm good, thanks', and _you're_ here to ruin it for me."

Martin shrugs and follows up on the brow situation on his own, making a face - and then going to wipe at the whole side of his face, just in case. If there'd been drool, he knows Jon wouldn't have gotten it, even if he wasn't feeling ill, much less said something about it to him. "Unfortunately, I'm a tad invested in your wellbeing, at the moment."

"Sucks."

"It sure does! Drink your water."

Jon does as he's told. They try a few things. They've only been here for a little while, but Martin's already gotten the cupboards stocked with all manner of teas -- he suggests that it's may be mostly anxiety-based and makes Jon a cup of chamomile, but ends up finishing it himself while babbling about different types of tea for this and for that and the other thing. Martin suggests some ginger, too, for the nausea itself -- Jon is more receptive to this idea, but Martin also ends up topping that one off, too. (He feels great. Jon, however, still looks miserable.)

Martin makes sure he's not feverish, first by holding Jon's face in his hands and then when Jon reminds him he's been running quite cold since the _incident_ , and then by jamming his cheek up against Jon's face. They both determine that without a thermometer, there's not really any way to tell, but also that if his fingers can't come off of his body, he's probably also not about to get a chronic sniffle. Nothing a fever reducer would help. Their options dwindle, but at least he has a cocktail of pleasantly bland fluids in him.

He should know better than to trust his body at this point, after so many years of betrayal after betrayal, but as Martin rubs his back, the light starting to settle a light blue glow on the scenery outside, he leans into the touch. Sets his head on Martin's shoulder. Closes his eyes, just to... maybe get a moment of sleep. If he sleeps, he can skip past all the time that would otherwise be spent sitting feeling ill for hours. Maybe he's alright. Maybe he can just _relax._ He absolutely should know better. Martin is rubbing his far arm and mumbling something to him when the pleasant cool that's come over his body flares into an icy shiver and a wave of sweat, dull nausea swells, and every nerve ending in his chest and his throat tighten, each muscle ready to sputter and gag and he has to shove Martin away with his limbs already shaking with effort and terror as he stands up, ready to bolt.

Luckily, he has enough control of himself not to vomit on the floor, despite the fact that Martin jumps up immediately and apparently has little faith in that ability, because he's pulling Jon's hair back from his shoulders and running a hand over his forehead to catch strays, offering him something to lean against as he uses a leg to push the coffee table out of the way. Jon clutches his shirt with one hand and gropes for Martin's arm with the other, knees shaking.

He's fine.

He's alright.

Martin gives him a moment of staring at the floor before he pipes up, his voice just a whisper, "Are you ready now?"

Maybe the torture will end if he just - gives Martin this. He swallows. Nods. Must catch Martin off guard with his sudden surrender because the other stutters a moment.

"Oh. Uh- y- right. Okay. Here, walk with me."

Jon can't stand the bog in this damn house anyway, so being in it with the intention of anything but taking a piss and leaving is always an ordeal, but - as he leans miserably against the doorframe, watching Martin shuffle back and forth, folding and re-folding a towel and setting it at the base of the toilet, running to get a washcloth to make sure the rim is clean enough to touch briefly, makes a bit of a mess and a racket looking for hair ties in the bedroom... Maybe it's not too bad.

"Right. Get down there." Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but finally, with a little bit of difficulty, sinks to his knees. The towel doesn't help very much, but it's not as cold as the tile, at least. Martin stands beside him and pulls his fingers back through Jon's long hair before using the tie to pull it back into a particularly high pony, and then once around again into a bun that's much cleaner than any bun Jon's ever done on his own. The back of his neck is bare and cold, now. Martin runs his fingers over the exposed skin and sighs as he squats beside him.

"Glasses."

Jon pulls his glasses off and hands them over. Martin exchanges the item for a thin blanket that he pulls around Jon's far shoulder, then the other.

"You want me to leave?"

Jon is silent for a moment. Sniffles. Martin is about to ask again when his thin frame sits up on its knees, leans over the bowl, and vomits.

Martin sighs in relief and settles a hand onto Jon's back, rubbing him in slow motions - up his back, between his shoulders, with his own calm breath in and then down with one out. It doesn't help at first, and once Jon finally slows to a stop, he's hyperventilating again - but over time, Martin's guiding motions bring him back down.

(Jon's nothing like his mother had been. She was dramatic and loud. Jon is as silent as he can possibly manage, the only sound coming from him being the panting for breath between bouts. No vocal heaving, no lamenting groans. He's not sure why that is, or why it makes him feel cold and sad.)

Eventually, Jon sets his forehead against the rim of the bowl, catching his breath. Martin leans down and kisses the back of his neck. "Water? Toothbrush? What are we looking at?"

Jon sniffles again. "I am _miserable_."

"Oh, they've been telling you for years, and it takes until now for you to get it?"

Jon clenches a fist and hits Martin in the chest with it. Martin only chuckles, offering a hand as Jon starts to struggle back to his feet.

"No, no, I think that was great! Very good."

"Don't patronise me."

Martin gives a helpless noise of acknowledgement and sticks around while Jon flushes the toilet, spits into the sink, brushes his teeth, washes his face. He undoes the bun in his hair and, while Jon's busy, brushes it back with his fingers. When he looks back into the mirror, Jon is staring at him with his brows furrowed.

"Boke again?"

"What? No. I'm fine." He makes a face and runs his tongue over his teeth. Martin leans down and presses his lips against Jon's temple, all the while looking at him in the mirror.

"Please, next time, don't monster yourself."


	2. trypanophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gives him the next look in the series of 'Martin Looks For When Jon Says Stupid Things', "Last night you watched four hours of disgusting true crime re-enactment. Your phone is filled with obscenely graphic podcasts about gloom and doom and gore!"  
> "I just don't. Like. Needles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone is trans. this one is a little more graphic but still definitely not the worst thing ive ever seen. watch yourself if you dont like needles, ok?? love yall

One of the things that Jon Sims thought he would never get the experience of doing was staying the night so regularly at someone's flat that they begin to accumulate his things, especially his more... delicate belongings. However, like on most things, Martin Blackwood has proven him wrong; there are plenty of ways for these things to happen. Having a night of drunk debauchery or touching and groping isn't the only way to end up lying on Martin's sofa, watching and critiquing infomercials at the early hours of the morning, or bringing clothes and hair ties and glasses cases and prescriptions, just in case he ends up at Martin's for longer than he intends. It's easy to do. As oriented to schedules as he is, there's a magnetism here that keeps him.

Maybe it's the fact that Martin has cable. Or the building's heat works fine. Really, despite his more expensive living quarters, Jon's gotten the short end of the stick he re-realizes each time he finds himself curled with a blanket snoring on Martin's floor at an ungodly morning hour because the heater has kicked on and it's  _ heavenly,  _ sitting there in Martin's arms or listening to him wandering around in the next room.

It was after a three-day stay when Jon had mumbled something about pills that Martin had suggested he just bring over a bit of all of his prescriptions so he could stay as long as he likes and not have to worry. Hesitant at first, Jon soon found that finding bottles with the correct labels was no real matter, considering his...  _ unique  _ organisation habits leading him to keep and collect each pill bottle on the sink at home as long as they will fit on the counter without falling over. Splitting things up, tossing half into a bag, and leaving the pack in Martin's cupboard was easy enough. He's been taking his pills every day, which is more than can be said about when he spends his time alone at home. (At home, he'd often find himself getting up to take a piss and then staring at the bottles on the sink and thinking to himself that he's  _ very busy  _ and will take them later. Too busy. ...And then never taking them at all.

But with Martin around, well. The daily ones are easier. The weekly, however, still creeps up on him.

"Oh, dammit."

The vial sits out. Martin must have gotten it out for him, seeing the calendar. He winces and picks it up, giving the oil inside a slosh. Super.

"Martin!"

He waits, groans, and tries again.

_ "Martin!"  _

The door to the toilet jiggles and Martin peeks a frustrated face in, his brows furrowed. "What? What. Don't yell, the neighbours will complain."

"Are you busy?"

Martin's eyes close as he takes a deep breath to keep from snapping at him. Jon tilts his head up and does his best to look down his nose at Martin even though he's a head taller. He has to assert some dominance before he asks him for anything, especially this.

Martin purses his lips. "...Not particularly. Why are you holding my testosterone?"

Jon looks down at it, taken aback a little. "Thought it was mine, if I'm honest."

"Yours is down underneath. Put that down, I haven't done it yet."

"Doing that today?"

"Yes, today. It's why it's out."

_ Huh _ . Jon sets the vial down. "You know, I was just about to ask you if you had a moment to help me."

Martin looks from Jon to the sink to the toilet and shower and then tilts his head, a puzzled expression hitting his face, "Help with..."

"With the  _ jab.  _ Don't look at me like that."

Martin's face absolutely lights up with a grin. He pushes the door open and crowds Jon a little, "Oh! Is that today? What a coincidence, isn't it?"

Jon takes a step back with a grumble. He hadn't meant for it to all happen right  _ now _ , but there's no escape once Martin takes up the whole goddamn doorway.

"There are only seven days in a week to chose from."

Martin processes this for a moment and then nods, sagely, "Well, if you need help with it, maybe it ought to be... You know."

"What?"

"Sort of a date."

"A date filled with jabs and bandages in your bathroom. Oh, goody."

"It's not so bad! It's quick enough. Only takes a minute. Anyway. What sort of help were you looking for?"

Of course, Martin has to poke at him like that.

"Martin. With the jab. You know, the ' _ getting it into my body'  _ bits. What do you think I need help with?"

Martin huffs, "And I thought I was in a mood. What's gotten into you?"

"I'm a week down on having natural body chemistry and now am thinking about jabbing myself. Alternatively, asking my boyfriend to do it because I'd rather not. Neither is appealing."

Martin opens the medicine cabinet and gets the rubbing alcohol down. What in the world has Martin been doing that he's so willing to drop in favour of  _ this _ ? Jon can't think of much that wouldn't be preferable. "Well, we'll just get it done, then. ...Oh, did you need the restroom?"

"Went already."

"Hm!" He continues to dig. Syringes, needles. Jon creeps toward the doorway, now that it's open for him, and tries to think of some reason to not be there. Martin speaks back up again, playfully, seeing Jon's slow retreat, "What, you don't think that putting a sharp little tube full of sludge into your stomach or arse is fun to do on your own?"

Jon's slow retreat turns into a rather quick one as he takes another few steps backwards, raising his hands to either side of his head and jamming his thumbs into his ears. It would be amusing if it weren't so sudden and honestly a bit concerning, given how rarely Jon usually has explosive reactions to things Martin has to say anymore.

He starts to feel a bit bad and puts off crouching to retrieve Jon's supplies in favour of following him the few strides into the hallway, placing a gentle hand on his back. Jon jumps under his touch, searches his face, and when he finds that Martin's no longer speaking, ceases his low frustrated grumble and releases his head.

"Didn't realise you were, ah..."

"Not a huge fan of them, no," Jon finishes for him, bristling -- Martin really ought to know better. He pulls himself from his gentle touch and takes another step away, leaving the other looking more concerned than he has any right to be, especially when Jon is being a prick about it. This has to be considered some sort of emotional manipulation in some circles, being far too nice for what the situation should allow, hasn't it?

"Well. I don't mean to upset you, but - how do you normally do it, then, if..."

"I try not to think about it," Jon says, watching Martin's lip twitch. He springs on it before Martin can get out the patronising comment that he's been conditioned into expecting, "I fill it, shut my brain off, and do it. Apologies if I'm not willing to listen to you go absolutely off the rails talking about needles."

Martin gives him the next look in the series of  _ Martin Looks For When Jon Says Stupid Things,  _ "Last night you watched four hours of disgusting true crime re-enactment. Your phone is  _ filled  _ with obscenely graphic podcasts about gloom and doom and gore!"

"I just don't. Like. Needles."

"Ah, uh... fair. Not at all, or are there certain bits that..."

"Doing it myself is worse. Why do you think I was yelling for you for?"

"Oh. Well, I can do it. Easy enough. What type do you do?" Martin is already pulling his shirt up over his head and then shaking out his hair. Little dots decorate his sides between stretchmarks, a collection of  _ many  _ years of jabbing, once a week, perfectly routine. Jon's aren't as easy to see, not when looking down himself, anyhow. It's the only good bit of the compromise - more terror, but less seeing his stomach speckled with dysphoria-inducing little dots. Besides, he has no fat anywhere on his body to place a needle into.

"Well, not that sort," He mutters, seeing Martin's injection spots.

"Oh. The big lads, then."

"Ye-up."

"Well, those are a bit hard to do on your own, anyway, aren't they?" Martin is in the midst of running a cotton pad over a space that hasn't been poked quite so much recently. Jon can't for the life of him understand how he can just -- stand there, in front of the mirror, his shirt off, in front of someone. Martin's big, and his chest isn't terribly out of place for a man his size. Jon is small, and his isn't, either -- but that doesn't make it any easier. He's a bit jealous, really.

"I don't actually put them directly into my arse, you know this, right? It's more... Leg."

"Never done," Martin says with a shrug, uncapping a syringe and taking down the vial. Jams it into the top. Jon feels a shiver hit his spine. It's all done in fluid movements, no stutters, no stops. Martin simply draws the liquid up, caps it again, replaces the needle, and pops the top back off again. Takes a handful of his stomach in one hand, jabs, releases. Jon has to look away the moment it enters his skin until it's been removed. It's not even his body -- and he has no qualms about looking at Martin, really, he doesn't -- but it just... Makes every inch of his skin crawl, feeling like there's a layer of ice between all his muscles and his nerves. He shivers involuntarily.

"Done. You want me to do yours, now?"

"Martin..."

"You're already cranky, I'm not letting you postpone it."

Jon narrows his eyes but knows that he speaks only the truth. The last two days of each week are always ones in which Martin happens to incur his waning-testosterone wrath. If there's anyone in the world that knows how  _ very much  _ Jon needs this, it's Martin, for a multitude of different reasons.

"You've got a spot." He gestures to Martin's stomach, where a tiny bead of red has sprouted from where he'd pricked the skin.

"I've got bandages. Come on. Do you want to sit or stand?"

Jon sighs, defeated.

"Out of the way, out, out out out."

Martin chuckles and scoots until Jon has all the room he needs to pull down his trousers, and then one leg of his pants. Jon's skin is a tad darker, making each little dot harder to follow - especially among the hair - but there's certainly a little grid of them. Apparently, he takes his organisation very seriously, even when it's not going to be seen by many. Martin gives him another little laugh to subsist off of, keeping the mounting anxiety at bay.

"That's pretty much bum."

"It is not."

"Well, you had to take down your boxers for it, so -"

"Plenty of space under a pair of boxers can be classified as something other than arse."

"I'd argue that."

"What do you mean, you'd  _ argue _ it, it's inarguable."

Martin is checking the label on Jon's vial and humming to himself as he uncaps it, swabs the top, and then comes after Jon's  _ leg _ with the disinfectant. He makes a vague gesture to most of Jon's newly-exposed skin.

"What would you call this, then, smart one?"

"Not arse!"

Martin laughs and shakes his head and Jon is nearly blinded by fury. The cotton round is cold. Jon suddenly decides to tune in and see if the heat's on. It isn't.

"Don't  _ laugh _ . You don't get to laugh at your own absolute idiocy when it comes to basic linguistics. There's a distinguishing word for each body part for a  _ reason _ . This is my  _ leg _ , you know. For  _ walking _ , and such."

Martin unwraps a syringe. Draws up the oil with it - gets the second needle and Jon watches the mix of emotions that flash across his face as he lays eyes on it. "Very big lad."

"You aren't getting away with this."

Martin gives him a bright grin and replaces the needle with the appropriate one for injecting and leans into Jon, kissing him on the temple.

"Right, so help me figure it out - exact etymological sources, please - about what line, precisely, is the line across which a bum becomes a leg."

Jon would  _ love  _ to, he really would, but the fact that Martin is so near to his skin with the syringe is the only thing running through his mind. He thought maybe if he had a distraction, he -

"Jon."

Jon sucks in a breath. "I'd say right down the middle, yeah? Anterior-posterior. The leg is anterior."

"You are not a dissection diagram."

"May as well be."

_ Jab _ .

Jon's breath stops entirely and he turns his head, his whole body gone completely hollow, deer-in-headlights terrified, away from Martin, just in case he was to catch even the slightest bit out of his periphery of it happening.

"Breathe." Martin's voice doesn't urge him right away but instead waits a moment to see if he's going to recover on his own. When it's clear he's going to hold his breath until someone tells him otherwise, Martin butts in - free hand running his knuckles across Jon's jaw, and then turns his fingers around to ghost his nails over the stubble. Jon sucks in a breath, begrudgingly, and only because Martin is good at knowing exactly what his reasons for subjecting himself to this is. "You're alright."

There is nothing Jon wants more at this exact moment than for it to be  _ over _ , so he can go another week of pretending it does not exist.

And then it retreats, which is just as sickening of a feeling, but at least it marks the end of the event. Jon finally lets out his breath, ragged, and hangs his head, putting one hand on the sink counter to hold himself and placing his face in the other with a groan.

"...Now, was that better or worse than doing it on your own?"

"Considering it takes me thirty minutes to work up to it on my own, it's... Certainly more efficient."

"Just have to come up with a fight to have each week, then. Each time you get mad at me, consider saving it for jab night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my main is neverchill. check me out. literally this is only on anon because i will COMPLETELY lose it if i have to scroll past vomit- or needle-related things while looking at my works.


End file.
